I texted my brother recently, asking for a photo of our mother's headstone. I will never see it otherwise, I said, because I am not going back to Texas ever.
I was overcome by sorrow at the thought of never being there again. Sorrow because there is no reason to go.
I remembered how after my mother's death, my daughter and I sat out on my mother's deck late at night. We talked some, heart to heart, but also just sat together quietly, listening to mysterious birds and watching the clouds and the moon. I wished I could have those moments again, the deck nestled in among the trees my mother loved, the balmy air, my daughter's soft voice. And I wish I could have had more time with my mother.
On a five minute walk I composed a little poem.
I was overcome by sorrow at the thought of never being there again. Sorrow because there is no reason to go.
I remembered how after my mother's death, my daughter and I sat out on my mother's deck late at night. We talked some, heart to heart, but also just sat together quietly, listening to mysterious birds and watching the clouds and the moon. I wished I could have those moments again, the deck nestled in among the trees my mother loved, the balmy air, my daughter's soft voice. And I wish I could have had more time with my mother.
On a five minute walk I composed a little poem.
Can we go back to Texas, Mama,
and sit on the deck
at midnight
and listen to the nightbirds' sleepy warbling,
and feel the sticky air turn soft
and balmy?
Can we go back to Texas, Mama,
and watch the clouds
float over the face of the moon,
and sip our wine,
and rest in peaceful companionship
in the silent spaces
between our words?
Can we go back to Texas, Mama,
when we are together again
both gone away,
gone away?
gone away?
